


lay bare before me

by what_on_io



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Lives AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major game spoilers, Period-Typical Homophobia, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 04:56:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17217410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_on_io/pseuds/what_on_io
Summary: “You’re my brother,” John says, and it won't ever be enough.“I know."Arthur won't let John say what he means.





	lay bare before me

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished chapter 6 last night and I haven't felt fully formed all day. I'm still only on part 1 of the epilogue so please excuse any canon bending, but I had to get this out of my head.

“You’re a real piece of work, Marston.”

“You know it, old man.”

They’re at the river’s edge, both ruddy-faced and out of breath after grappling over water fetching duty. John will have been with the gang for exactly a year on Friday, and he still doesn’t know how to pull his weight as far as Arthur is concerned.

When Arthur was thirteen he was in charge of hunting food for him and his mother, responsible for hidin’ the whiskey and the knives with a decade of experience of taking the belt for her too. Now this Marston kid - Dutch’s latest prodigy - can’t even fetch a pail of water for the laundry?

“And you’re a real piece of shit, Morgan!” John hollers back, taking a stumbling step away from him and teetering on the spot. “Jus’ jealous ‘cause you ain’t the golden boy no more, huh? ‘Cause Dutch went and found somebody better?”

Arthur would like to say he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about Dutch, that Hosea’s closer to a father to him than anyone will ever be to John, but the kid opens his mouth again and spits out, “Says I’m a crack shot. And Hosea said I’m already makin’ more progress readin’ than you did at my age.”

Arthur sees red.

He leaps at the other boy, driving them both into the muddy riverbank, John flat on his back and Arthur’s fist ready to swing. Credit where it’s due - Marston fights dirty, flips them both over so they’re rolling in the dirt and presses Arthur’s cheek into the sludge, two fingers inching up by his eyesocket and pressing _hard_.

Arthur’s bigger and stronger though, flips ‘em both again like a turtle on its back. They’re both in the water now, and he pushes just a little harder, just enough to turn Marston’s face into it so he can’t breathe. Just for a minute, enough to scare him a little and maybe make him think twice about antagonising him next time. Just enough that his cheeks are a little purple when he tugs him up by the hair.

When he gets his breath back, John doesn’t yell at him or try to beat him again. Just sits on his haunches panting, eyes glued to Arthur like he’s watchin’ a bear that got too close.

He never dares go near the water again, after that.

* * *

 

“You’re not thinkin’ straight.”

“I know. How can I?” John asks, all fire and fury, before he leans in to snag Arthur by the collar and press their lips together again.

It’s one summer evening, hot and syrupy. Abigail has just announced she’s pregnant and John is kissing Arthur underneath an oak tree, tasting of fish stew and cigarettes.

“C’mon, Arthur. I want-“

“Don’t matter what you say you want! We can’t do this. Not here and definitely not now,” Arthur splutters. Shoves him backwards, while all the while he wants to tug him closer.

“What, you don’t want it? I see how you look at me, Morgan, don’t think I don’t.”

“You’re about to have a child,” Arthur spits. “You should be with Abigail. This ain’t right, John. Ain’t natural.”

The boy bites his lip, hard enough to pebble blood to the surface. He steps backwards, spits, refuses to look Arthur in the eye. “It ain’t mine.”

“What ain’t?”

“The kid.”

“Course it is,” Arthur says. Them two been as good as married for a long time now. “You ain’t a child no more, so man up and take responsibility for once in your goddamn life, Marston!”

Arthur storms away, face burning furiously from shame and anger both. When he gets up the next morning, John and his things are gone, with only a note left behind.

Abigail doesn’t let him read it.

* * *

 

“You’re an asshole, you know that, Marston?”

“Oh, trust me, I know.”

A year. An entire year of _nothin’_  and the kid waltzes back into camp like exactly that happened, a loose grip on Old Boy’s reins and a dopey grin on his stupid face. Arthur, over by the fire, wants to punch him; Abigail beats him to it.

“You monster!” she screams, battering him all over with fists that are too weak for Arthur’s liking. John slips down from the horse with a grunt, swaying on his feet. Drunk, then.

“Had time to visit the saloon before layin’ eyes on your newborn child, then, Marston?” Arthur grits out, easing himself up from his log and hooking his thumbs in his pockets, sidling over to greet them. “It’s a boy, by the way.”

“Ain’t my kid,” John says brightly. One hand absently goes up to scrub his jaw where Abigail hit him, and his gaze strays to Arthur’s. “Ain’t my problem.”

He strides to an open tent without another word and flops down on one of the spare bedrolls, one arm going to pillow his head. Arthur and Abigail exchange a look before Arthur forces himself to shrug, to back off. Ain’t his problem.

Jack ain’t his problem either, but it had been Arthur getting up when he cried in the night, Abigail too tired to fetch him and the other women still young enough to distance themselves from motherhood. Arthur who sang to him softly with Javier’s guitar filtering in from outside and Arthur who read aloud to him in the flickering lamplight of his own tent while everyone around him slept.

Arthur goes to his own tent. Changes into something comfortable and tries not to think about strangling John in his sleep.

* * *

 

“You’re an idiot, Marston.”

“I know.” John’s voice is too quiet where he’s curled up on a stack of blankets, bandaged eye still leaking blood and pus and God only knows what else. He groans when he shifts on the bedding, a hand reaching to carefully probe at his injury.

“Don’t touch it, Christ,” Arthur grunts, slapping the hand away.

“Itches,” John grits out.

“There’s more ointment somewhere. You should really get to a doctor, s’probably infected by now.” Arthur rummages in his satchel for the tin and unscrews the lid, dipping his fingers into the cream. Colder than it should be, like everything here, but he slathers it on the area around John’s bandages anyway, gentler than Marston deserves. “You should know better than to go out gettin’ mauled by wolves.”

“Oh, I do apologise, _mother_.” There’s a faint curl to his lips, though, the closest thing to a smile Arthur’s seen him attempt since the mountain. “On the bright side, Abigail never wanted me for my looks.”

“Oh, hush,” Arthur gripes. “Y’ain’t never been ugly, and what is it they say? Scars jus’ add character.”

John squeezes his good eye shut from the pain but he’s laughing, and he doesn’t try to scratch again until Abigail takes over watch duty an hour later, slipping her hand into his and casting a wary glance towards Arthur.

“He givin’ you trouble, Arthur?” she asks, and it’s fond and exhausted all at the same time. John smiles dopily up at her.

“Nah, Miss Roberts. For once, I think he might jus’ be behavin’ himself.”

* * *

“You have some nerve, you know that?”

“Yep!” John’s smile is a proud, huge thing, blooming across his face like the sunrise. He slaps his cards down on the table across from Arthur and reaches out to scoop his winnings towards him with arms open wider than the meagre pile deserves.

“Since when did Marston ever have a good poker face?” Bill whines, scraping his stool back and brushing crumbs from his beard.

Arthur doesn’t answer that one. Knows all too well John can be plenty subtle when he wants to be.

“Ah, better luck next time, Williamson,” John grins. “You up for another hand, Morgan?”

What can he say but yes? John deals; Mary-Beth folds and flounces off early to pester Pearson about dinner. Arthur bets. John watches, eyes narrowed, raises him. Chips clatter on the table between them and still Marston won’t quit _lookin’_ , brows etched into a frown.

“Y’ever think about that summer?” The question is casual as anything, voiced as John flips another card and thumps the table to check. “Before Jack was born?”

“Before you left, y’mean,” Arthur grunts. He has a two pair and nothing better. “I guess I do sometimes. Why?”

What he means is: why now?

“Oh, I dunno. Jus’ got me to thinkin’, the other day. You went off to see Mary, didn’t ya?”

Arthur grits his teeth and knows where this is going. He scrubs a hand across the nape of his neck to clear the sweat beading there, raises just for something to do with his hands. “She needed my help.”

“She broke your heart.”

“So did you,” Arthur says before his brain can catch up with his mouth. John matches his bet, doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Camp is quiet - there’s a low squabble over by the supply wagon, laughter from Tilly and Karen, the screech of some bird overhead. Arthur tosses the rest of his chips into the centre of the table.

“You broke mine first,” John says, all-in. They flip their cards over at the same time.

A flush.

* * *

 

“You have it in you to be a good father.”

There’s no response. John stares at the piece of wood he’s whittling and refuses to look Arthur in the eye. By the house, Jack is skipping along to a Spanish song, firelight dancing in his eyes and his little hand clutched in his mother’s.

“I mean it, Marston. Kid needs a father, and you’re growin’ up more than you like to admit,” Arthur rumbles. He has enough alcohol in his system to numb the humiliation givin’ a scolding to a grown man brings. “You do love him, I can see it.”

“Course I love him. I went and got him back, didn’t I?” John rasps finally, the fire painting his face in sharp shadow. “He’s just a kid. Couldn’t leave him there, for Abigail’s sake. But he still ain’t mine.”

Something inside of Arthur snaps, and he has to grind the fingernails of his right hand into his left knuckles to avoid throwing a punch. “You have a good thing, Marston. Two good things, a _family_ , an’ you jus’ keep throwing ‘em away like they’re nothin’! You don’t know what it’s like to have that ripped away from you, but one day it’ll all be gone and you’ll be alone and you won’t know who you are anymore an’-“

“M’sorry, Arthur,” John whispers. Fingers close around his own, tugging gently until his entire right hand is in John’s lap. “I know what you lost, and I’m sorry. Truly, I am. But Abigail, Jack- Jack ain’t my son. Sometimes I wish he was. But Abigail an’ I-“

“Abigail an’ you what?”

“We ain’t never… It ain’t ever been like that. She and Dutch…”

“That was a long time ago-“

“Not as long as you think,” John sighs. “She was keepin’ tabs on the money. Seein’ if it was all in the right place.”

“But _Dutch_ -“

“Don’t say nothin’, Arthur. Please. It’s easier like this.”

“He doesn’t know?”

“No. And I don’t see no reason why he should. Do you?”

Arthur can see plenty of reasons, but he closes his jaw and watches John across the fire until the flames die down to embers, and then he yawns and carries himself up the stairs to bed, alone.

* * *

 

“You’re my brother,” John says, and it won’t ever be enough.

“I know,” Arthur rasps. His throat feels too full of bile and something larger threatening to spill out of him to say more, and he flaps a hand in lieu of more coherent words. “Go. Go, John. I’ll hold them off.”

Marston’s torn, Arthur can see it in his eyes. He forces himself up off the rock he’d collapsed over, puts both hands on John’s shoulders, fumbles the hat off his head and presses it firm over John’s hair.

“It would mean a lot to me, John. Go be with your family. They need you.”

“Arthur, please-“

“Go and be a goddamn man, for once in your life, John!” The words are meant to maim and they do - unbridled hurt flashes in John’s eyes but he still isn’t moving, still won’t quit watching Arthur like death isn’t on their tails. “Go!”

“Arthur, I-“

“I know. Go.”

John goes. And later, with that final sunset warming Arthur’s cheeks, he drifts in and out of a dream about him coming back.

* * *

 

“I love you.”

“I know.”

He does too, in his own way. Abigail smiles down at him from the wagon as John eases himself down, makin’ pretty talk about finding a cleaning job and settling down in a farm somewhere with Jack teaching her how to read and John teaching their son to ride, and John nods along with it all but doesn’t really hear any of it.

This is what Arthur died for, for him to become a ranch-hand at the beck and call of some high-and-mighty, shovelling shit and reaching further into a horse’s insides than he ever wanted his hand to go.

He loves Abigail, but he loved the gang too.

Still, he does as she bids. Gets an honest job, settles into his alias like a worn-out pair of gloves, stows his guns under the bed and wakes too early every morning to burnt coffee and Abigail’s godawful cooking and a kiss pressed to the bristle under his chin. He takes their son riding and tries not to think about Dutch, and sometimes he opens up Arthur’s journal and traces his index finger over the pencil marks.

It isn’t enough. Abigail leaves with Jack, and John doesn’t blame her.

* * *

 

“You’re alive.”

“I know.”

It doesn’t feel real. Probably never will, but the telegram clutched in his right fist does, and that’s enough for now.

_Jim STOP._

“I’m sorry I took so long. You’re a difficult man to find, Jim Milton,” Arthur says, scratching at his hair. It’s gotten long, falling past his ears, and without his hat he looks strangely naked. He’s put some weight back on, thankfully, and he’s wearing a dark blue shirt John’s never seen him in before. “Sadie helped, though.”

_I would like to meet with you STOP._

“I thought it was Dutch at first,” John manages, sounding foreign to his own ears. “Arthur, how did you… You _died_  on that mountain. I left you and you _died_.”

_Got some loose ends needs clearing up STOP._

They’re sitting on a rock in the ass-end of nowhere, the dying sun setting over them both and Arthur’s breaths close on John’s cheek. His chest doesn’t rattle no more, he notices dimly.

“Had a little help then, too. Some tonic Rains Fall cooked up. Some dumb luck and Micah bein’ a lousy shot without a gun,” Arthur says, smirking. “Saw a doctor shortly after, and he said… well. I ain’t dead.”

_Best, Tacitus Kilgore STOP._

“I missed you like hell, Arthur,” John says, and it’s the first true thing he’s uttered in a long while. “Could never settle into the life of a farmhand, but I tried. Thought it was what you’d want, so I tried, but- Abigail’s gone. Helped her set herself up in a little ranch near Blackwater, and I visit, but I couldn’t see myself there with her. I’m sorry. You gave up everythin’ and I wasted it-“

“You didn’t waste nothin’. You got out, didn’t you? ‘Sides, I might’ve underestimated how much I’d miss gunslinging if I couldn’t do it no more. Tried my own hand at ranching and then bounty hunting and now… I guess I’m in between places.”

“Yeah, you can say that again,” John sputters an exhale, takes off his hat and scrapes his fingers through his hair - almost as long now as it used to be. “Arthur, I don’t think I could bear it if you left again.”

“Wasn’t thinkin’ about it,” Arthur grins. “If bein' a dead man taught me one thing, it's that I should grasp the good things when I have 'em. And for what it's worth, I missed your sorry ass too. I'm jus' sorry I pushed you into things. I- I see everything more clearly now."

“Arthur, I-“

“I kn-“

“I know you do, but just let me say it, alright?”

“John, we’ve wasted all this time-“  _Too much_ , he nearly says, but John won't let him.

“Not a waste. Not if we’re here now.” John curls his fingers around Arthur’s, draws their hands to his lips and presses a kiss there. “I love you, Arthur Morgan.”

“I love you too,” Arthur breathes back. When their lips meet it’s a blessing and an inevitability all at once, and John’s hands are in Arthur’s hair and Arthur’s arms are drawing around his back to pull him close, shared breaths huffed together in the cool evening air.

“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let John have long hair 2k19!
> 
> Come join me on tumblr (what-on-io)! I take prompts!


End file.
